Be Careful What You Wish For
by HousePiglet
Summary: A metaSickWilson fic written for the 100 Members Prompt at the LJ Community, Sick Wilson Anonymous. Wilson suddenly becomes accident prone, and things go from bad to much, much worse. Can House work it out? Hurtcomfort, angst and humour.


**BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR…**

**Sunday - 9pm**

"Wilson!" For once, House's voice lacked any mockery or sarcasm. He sounded genuinely shocked. "What in God's name happened to your face?"

It was Sunday evening at 9pm, and House had been expecting Wilson an hour earlier. When they'd spoken on the phone Wilson had promised to stop at the video store on his way over and pick something up. House had grudgingly agreed to get takeaway--he'd reminded himself that he could always sneak into Wilson's wallet and retrieve the money afterwards--but Wilson's Kung Pau chicken, and what remained of his egg rolls, had spent so long drying in the oven that they now looked more like something Wilson might think about sneaking to Steve behind House's back than feeding to himself.

Wilson winced, and raised a hand to his face. A large bruise was visible under his right eye, and blood was oozing form his nose. His hair was sticking up in tufts, and there were traces of dirt on his jacket and dress pants. He swayed slightly as he stepped forwards, and--shocked into an uncharacteristic display of concern--House put out a hand to steady him.

Wilson stepped past House and into the apartment. "I was robbed on the way out of the video store," he said. He rolled his eyes, and smiled a little grimly as he made his way stiffly across the room. "It was two kids… they took my wallet and my phone."

Wilson lowered himself painfully onto the couch, and for a moment House surveyed him silently. Then he turned and limped towards the kitchen, returning shortly afterwards with a damp cloth and a bowl of warm water. He took a seat on the couch beside Wilson and placed the bowl on the coffee table. Then he leaned towards Wilson and reached for his face.

"Did you hit your head?" he asked, as he turned Wilson towards the light. Wilson's right cheekbone was blue and green, and the area beneath his eye was swollen and angry looking. The bruise was still spreading, and there were signs that his eye might be starting to close. House felt his jaw tighten as he surveyed the sight.

"No," said Wilson, wincing again as House gently palpated the area around his eye. "One of them punched me in the stomach, and the other one hit me in the face. They grabbed my things, and they were gone before I even realised what was happening."

House frowned, and his fingers moved to Wilson's nose. Wilson flinched, and shrank away slightly as House manipulated it carefully. "Oh don't be such a baby!" growled House. "I'm not killing you." The expression on his face belied his tone, though, and as he finished his examination he turned back to the table and reached for the cloth. "Well at least there's nothing broken. "Here," he said, handing the cloth to Wilson. "Wipe yourself up. You're bleeding all over the furniture."

Wilson took the cloth and began to make ineffectual dabbing motions at the blood on his chin. House watched him for a moment and then frowned again, and took the cloth from Wilson's hand. He placed his other hand on the back of Wilson's head, and held him steady as he began to wipe the blood from Wilson's face. As he did so he noticed Wilson's breath hitch. "D'you want something for the pain?" he asked.

"No, I'm okay," said Wilson, with a grimace. "It could've been worse." He winced again, though, as House moved the cloth carefully around his face. "I could do with a beer when you've finished."

House grunted, but he didn't speak, and a minute or so later he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out and passed it back to Wilson. "Press on your nose with that. If it doesn't stop bleeding I'll have to drive you to the hospital." Then he looked back at the trail of bloody spots that marked out Wilson's progress across the room. "If you get any more blood on the couch you'll be buying me a new one."

House got up and made his way over to the kitchen. He bent to search in the fridge, and from his position on the couch Wilson heard the sound of a pot on the stove and then the sound of a plate on the table. Then he heard House take something out of a drawer. A few minutes later House returned with a cup of soup and some kind of sandwich. He placed them on the table in front of Wilson, and returned to the kitchen for two beers. "Eat that," he said, as he dropped back into his place on the couch. "How's your nose?"

Wilson lifted the cloth away, and House leaned in for a closer look. There was no sign of further bleeding, and he leaned back, satisfied with his work. "I think it's stopped," he said, "but you're not going to be winning any beauty contests for a week or two." He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was almost 10pm. "You'd better stay. Just remind me not to look at you before I've had coffee in the morning." Wilson managed a watery smile and reached for his sandwich, and House leaned forwards to turn the television on.

90 minutes later Wilson was asleep, and as the movie came to an end House pressed the remote and switched the television off. He sat back and looked across at Wilson, meditatively. He'd hesitated briefly before crushing half a Vicodin and sprinkling it into Wilson's sandwich, but the drug had had the desired effect. Wilson's head had slipped sideways, and he was propped awkwardly against a pile of cushions with his feet resting on the table. He looked almost impossibly young, and a quick thrill of anger surged through House's veins as he examined the damage to Wilson's eye.

The swelling had spread, and the bruising was already turning purple. House spent a few moments in contemplation of what he'd like to do to the bastards who'd done this to Wilson, but eventually he reached for his cane and pushed himself up and out of his seat. Then he took hold of Wilson's shoulder and shook him gently. "Wakey wakey, Wilson. Time for bed." Wilson mumbled sleepily, and began to sit up.

House walked to his bedroom and collected a clean t-shirt from a drawer. On his way back to the living room he stopped at the cupboard, and pulled out Wilson's pillow and a blanket. He carried them back to Wilson, and dropped the bundle onto the couch. Wilson's eyes were closing again, and he still looked half asleep. House poked him gently in the shoulder, and bent down to unfasten his shoe laces. "Here, Wilson. Get your shirt and pants off and put this on."

A couple of minutes later Wilson had been divested of his clothes and established in House's t-shirt. House reached for Wilson's legs and began to swing them up onto the couch. Wilson was heavier than he looked, though, and House stopped. "Come on, sport. You'll have to help me out with this," he said. Wilson pulled his legs up, and House spread the blanket over his body. Wilson curled up on his side, then, and snuggled down into the pillow. He closed his eyes and mumbled again as he drifted back to sleep. House gave him a final look, and then reached across to the lamp and switched it off. He turned towards the bathroom, and 5 minutes later he made his way into his room and settled into bed. 

**Monday - 3am**

House woke suddenly. He wasn't sure what had disturbed him, and his first instinct was to run his right hand down his leg towards his thigh. The dull ache was no worse than usual, though, and so he opened his eyes and turned his head towards the clock.

It was 3am, and the room was in darkness, but as he turned his head back he noticed a thin line of dim light at the foot of the door. For a moment he was confused, but then he remembered Wilson and relaxed back into his pillows. Wilson was probably making a nocturnal visit to the kitchen. It occurred to House again that Wilson seemed incapable of doing anything quietly, and he frowned and made a note to berate him about it in the morning. A moment later he remembered the events of the night before, though, and his feeling of slight uneasiness returned.

House lay watching the light, his ears straining and his eyes waiting for a sign that Wilson had made his way back to the couch and settled down to sleep. The sign didn't come, though, and sleep now seemed to have deserted House too, and so he pushed himself up against the pillows and switched on the bedside lamp. He reached for his Vicodin and swallowed one, and then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, picked up his cane and made his way to the door.

The corridor was quiet, but there was light filtering through from the living room. Craning his neck in that direction, House thought he could hear the sound of a tap running. He walked along the corridor and turned to his right, but Wilson was nowhere to be seen. House continued to the kitchen doorway, and there he was confronted by the sight of Wilson leaning over the sink and holding a blood stained towel to his face.

"What the fuck...?" gasped House in disbelief, and he limped rapidly over to the sink and took hold of Wilson by the shoulder, pushing him upright. "What the hell have you done now?"

Wilson turned towards him, and for a moment House thought his nose had begun to bleed again. As he looked more closely, though, he realised that Wilson was bleeding from a gash above his left eyebrow. House's head spun, and just for a moment he was almost lost for words. "Wilson, what…?" he started, unable to piece the puzzle together, and reaching over with his right hand to inspect the cut on Wilson's head. Wilson's right eye was swollen shut, and the bruising from earlier in the evening was drifting down his right cheek. Blood from his new injury had run down his face and was staining House's t-shirt, and the cut hadn't responded yet to the pressure that Wilson had been exerting with the towel.

It was clear from Wilson's expression that he was just as bemused as House, and considerably more pissed off. "I woke up with a headache, so I got up to get a glass of water. Then I caught my foot in the blanket as I was getting off the couch, and I fell and hit my head on the coffee table. I must have been half asleep. I can't..." He stopped then and leaned forwards again, taking a deep breath, and House felt a surge of alarm. He decided further explanation could wait until later, and so he leaned forwards and placed a hand on Wilson's arm.

"Come and sit down. You're going to need stitches in that."

Wilson muttered in protest, but he allowed House to lead him back into the living room and deposit him on the couch. House returned to the kitchen, and for the second time that night he emerged shortly afterwards with a damp towel and a bowl of warm water.

"Let me take a look," he said, pulling Wilson's hand away from his head and pushing him back into the seat. He glanced at Wilson sideways. Wilson looked exhausted, and he was unusually pale. "Did you pass out?" he asked, as his fingers explored the wound. It was clean and short, but deep, so that explained why Wilson hadn't been able to staunch the bleeding. House dropped a hand to Wilson's wrist, and began to count.

"I don't think so," said Wilson, heavily. "I remember everything about it in excruciating detail." He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. "Have you got any acetaminophen here? My head's killing me."

"I'll get you something when I've finished this." House finished checking Wilson's pulse, and returned to the cut. "Do you feel dizzy at all?" 

"No. Just sore," said Wilson, closing his eyes.

Finishing his inspection, House wiped away the worst of the blood from Wilson's face and placed the cloth in Wilson's hand. Then he lifted Wilson's hand to his brow and pressed it firmly against the gash. "Hold that, and stay there. Don't move," he said, as he pushed himself off the couch and made his way to the bathroom.

In the bathroom he lifted his First Aid kit out of the cabinet, and then he returned to the couch. Flipping the box open he extracted a penlight, and placed his left hand on the top of Wilson's head. Wilson tried to pull away, but House pulled him back in again. "Just sit still for a minute. I need to check you out." He lifted Wilson's right eyelid and shone the light into his eye. Then he moved on to the left. Satisfied with what he found, he dropped the penlight into the box, extracted a suture kit and turned back again.

"Okay, you're going to need 4 stitches. I can run you to the hospital now, or I can do it here. Your choice."

Wilson blinked, and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I'm not sure it needs stitches. Head wounds always..."

House cut him off. "You need stitches, Wilson. The cut's too deep to close on its own. Now if you want to be a wuss then I can drive you in, numb it for you and do it there. Or I can do it here, we'll be finished in 15 minutes and if you're good I might even give you a lollipop." He waggled the suture kit in Wilson's face, raised his eyebrows and leered, suggestively.

Wilson sighed, and surrendered to the inevitable. "Okay, get on with it. Can you at least _try _not to hurt me, though? I've had enough pain already this evening to last me several years."

House made his way back to the kitchen, and returned with an icepack wrapped in a towel. "Here," he said, as he lifted Wilson's hand away from his brow. He replaced the cloth with the icepack, and raised Wilson's hand to hold it in place. "This'll help a bit."

House turned back to the suture kit and ripped it open with a flourish. It took him a moment to thread a needle, and then he leaned forwards to swab the cut. The pad stung, and Wilson flinched. "Sit still, will you? I haven't touched you yet," grumbled House, and then he arranged Wilson securely in the corner of the couch. "Try not to move. I'd hate to spoil those pretty boy looks."

Wilson tensed as the needle approached, but in recent months he'd almost forgotten how gentle it was possible for House to be. Ten minutes later the stitches were in, and House swabbed the area once again before applying a dressing. "Finished," he said, as he dropped the wrappers onto the table. "You're beautiful again."

Wilson let out a slow breath. "Thanks," he said. He raised a hand to his brow and felt the bandage, carefully. "You'd better not let Cuddy see this. She thinks you don't know one end of a suture kit from the other."

"Yeah, well I'll tell her Cameron did it." House leaned back and stretched out his leg. He gazed over at Wilson. He looked a little better now: less pale, and calmer. Still, he was going to need something for his headache. House toyed for a moment with the inconvenient idea that the Vicodin Wilson had unknowingly ingested earlier might have had something to do with his inability to untangle his legs from the blanket, but consigned the thought to the back of his mind. "How's your head now?" he asked, leaning forwards again and rummaging in the First Aid kit. He looked back up at Wilson, and cocked his head to one side. "I think there's acetaminophen in here, but you might be better off with Vicodin."

"Just give me the acetaminophen," said Wilson. "I'll be fine if I can just get a bit of sleep."

House found the pills, and passed the packet to Wilson. Then he collected a glass of water from the kitchen and set it down on the table. Wilson swallowed two pills, and pulled the blanket up and over his chest. "What time is it now?" he asked, lifting his legs up and stretching them out against the cushions.

House checked his watch. "It's almost 4am," he said. "I'm going back to bed. D'you think you can manage to stay out of trouble for an hour or so?"

Wilson gave a wry smile. "I've no intention of moving from here before seven." Then his face clouded a little, and his hand rose involuntarily towards his eye. "I've got a Board Meeting at nine. I dread to think what Cuddy's going to say about this."

"Tell her you were so incredibly annoying that I got fed up and hit you," said House as he made his way towards the door. Arriving there, he paused for a moment. "On second thoughts, maybe not. She might believe you."

Wilson rolled his eyes a final time before he lay back on his pillow, and closed them. "Goodnight again, House, and thanks."

"Goodnight, Wilson," said House. "Any time. Who knew sticking needles in your face could be so much fun?" 

**Monday - 8am**

4 hours later, House woke to the alluring smell of pancakes wafting through from the kitchen. He checked his watch and then reached for his Vicodin. When he limped into the kitchen a few minutes later, Wilson was sipping coffee and flipping pancakes out of a pan. There was a pile on a plate next to him, and small traces of recent consumption were visible on Wilson's tie.

House breathed in deeply, and glanced around the kitchen. "Please tell me we have syrup," he said, grabbing a pancake from the plate.

Wilson smiled. "Your wish is my command!" and he produced a bottle from the other side of the stove.

House squeezed syrup onto the pancake, rolled it up and took a bite. Then he moved closer to Wilson, and took hold of him by his chin. "Let me see," he said, and angled Wilson's face towards the window. Wilson's right eye was completely closed, and there were clear signs of bruising running down his left eyelid from the contusion above. A little blood had seeped through to the outside of the dressing, and House made a note to change it after breakfast. Wilson's right cheek was swollen, and overnight the bruising had developed almost all the colors of the rainbow.

"You look a mess," said House, releasing Wilson's chin and returning to the pancakes. "You're going to freak out the cancer kids if they see you looking like that. You should take a couple of days off. Cuddy won't mind."

Wilson moved the pan to the sink, and shook his head, carefully. "I have to go in today. I've got staff appraisals after the Board Meeting, and I've got back to back patients between twelve and three."

"The Oncology Department won't grind to a halt if you miss a few days," House replied, through a mouthful of pancake. "No-one's indispensable, Wilson. Not even you." He took a sip of his coffee and reached for the syrup again. He knew he was wasting his time. He'd long known that Wilson had an over-developed sense of responsibility, and while there might be occasions upon which that worked to House's benefit--and it occurred to him now that recent examples included the re-stocking of House's First Aid kit, and making sure there was syrup in House's fridge--there were other times when House could cheerfully have strangled him.

As House had anticipated, Wilson was unmoved. "I'll be fine. The acetaminophen's keeping the edge off things, and anyway--I'll be in exactly the right place if it gets any worse." He grinned over at House. "I'll be sure to call you in for a consult if I find myself bleeding again."

House shrugged, and reached for the last pancake. "Suit yourself," he said, "but come next door and let me change the dressing before you go out." Wilson did, and half an hour later he set off for the hospital. House watched him leave and then he made his way along the corridor towards the shower. 

**Monday - 10.30am**

Word traveled fast in the hospital, and so House wasn't surprised to find his fellows chatting about Wilson's injuries when he arrived at the conference room later that morning. He _was _surprised to find they were talking about a sprained ankle, though. "Wilson's sprained his ankle?" he frowned, as he placed his backpack on the table. "When did that happen?"

"On his way in this morning," Cameron replied, and she got up to pour him a coffee. "He tripped over Dr Cuddy in the clinic, on his way to the Board Meeting. She came in to speak to you about it. She said he was lucky he didn't break a leg." Cameron turned back to hand the coffee to House, and she was just in time to see the door swinging closed behind him. "She said he had two black eyes as well," she called, as she watched him make his way past the window towards Wilson's room.

House found Wilson alone in his office. He was sitting behind his desk with a pen in his hand and a blank expression on his face, and his left leg was elevated and resting on a stool. House looked down at the leg, and then back up at Wilson. "So how did it happen this time?"

Wilson shrugged, and twisted uncomfortably in his seat. "I have no idea! One minute I was walking past the clinic on my way to the meeting, and the next I collided with Cuddy. I think I must have stepped on something. Anyway, my leg went out from under me, and… well…" Wilson shrugged again, and gestured towards his injured foot. It was shoeless, and the ankle was wrapped in a heavy pressure bandage. Someone had added a large sock to keep it warm: presumably one of Wilson's many fond admirers amongst the nursing staff, House imagined, as he moved forwards to take a closer look. As he stepped around the end of Wilson's desk he saw crutches propped against a chair.

House poked at the ankle with his cane, and Wilson jumped. "Hurts, eh?" House asked, as he stepped back and took a seat in Wilson's armchair.

"Yes, of course it hurts, you idiot!" Wilson yelled, and he glared across at House. House was intimately familiar with the whole range of Wilson's glares, and normally they left him entirely unmoved. The bruises and bandages on Wilson's face invested this particular glare with additional impact, though, and for a moment House was almost impressed.

He stared back at Wilson silently, and eventually Wilson stopped glaring and returned to his paperwork. House began to toy with his cane. There had to be a reason for this sudden spate of injuries. Some way of fitting the pieces together. He erected a mental whiteboard, and listed the symptoms. Then he added _"homeless"_, _"frustrated"_ and _"lonely?"_ to the list, and began to consider the options. A few minutes later he spoke.

"Wilson," he began. "How long have you been in the hotel now? It must be almost…"--and he tilted his head reflectively--"…it must be coming up for a year?"

Wilson looked up again. "Yeah, I suppose it is." He considered it for a moment. "Yeah, it'll be a year in a week or so. Why?"

House's gaze dropped to his feet, and he spun his cane a little faster between his palms. There was a brief pause as he searched for an appropriately neutral term. "These… _outings… _you've been having with Cuddy recently," he said, and he paused again, to clear his throat. "Just how long is it now since you've actually…?" He looked up at Wilson for help, but tailed off in mid-sentence, unsure about how to continue for once.

Wilson looked back in confusion. "How long since I've _what_?" he asked. "And what have my "outings" with Cuddy got to do with anything?"

House shifted uneasily in his chair. "There has to be some reason why it's suddenly impossible for you to cross a room without some kind of accident. It's been a difficult 12 months,"--he looked down again at that stage--"and it's a long time since you've been in a relationship,"--he glanced up at Wilson, then, hoping for confirmation, but Wilson's expression revealed nothing--"so I'm wondering…"

Wilson cut across him at that point. "You're wondering whether I've been offering myself as a victim to robbers, hurling my face into your coffee table and throwing myself at Cuddy's feet in some sort of bid for _sympathy_?" he cried, slamming his pen down on the desk. "_God, _House, you can be a real _jerk _at times."

"Calm down," House replied, in a placatory tone. "I'm not suggesting it's deliberate. There has to be something, though."

Wilson took a deep breath and then he spoke again, more quietly. "Just think about it for a moment. If I was harboring a subconscious desire for sympathy then I suppose it's possible that I might have faked a trip against the coffee table,"--it was clear from Wilson's expression that he considered that to be just about as likely as Cuddy performing an impromptu striptease in the middle of the clinic--"but how does that explain the mugging? And don't you think Cuddy might have noticed if I'd just performed some sort of _pratfall _at her feet this morning?"

House had to admit that made sense, and after a moment's further reflection he sat back in his chair and crossed _Munchausen_'s off his mental list. "Well okay then," he replied, "but be careful. This is getting out of hand. You're going to end up really hurting yourself."

Wilson sighed and took up his pen again. "If I can find some way to avoid any more of _this _then I'll be the first to join you in the celebration," he said, with a frown. "Sitting up half the night with you inserting stitches in my face isn't exactly my idea of a good time."

House took hold of his cane by the head, and pushed himself out of the chair. "Wanna get lunch later?" he asked. "I'll let you buy me a steak salad if you ask nicely."

Wilson gestured towards the papers on his desk, and shook his head. "I can't. I've got patients starting at twelve, and I'm not going to be finished until sometime after three."

"Okay, then," said House. "I'll come by after that and run you back to my place. I'm not sure you're safe on your own, and you look as though you could use some sleep."

Wilson waved a hand in acknowledgement and turned back to his work, and House returned to his office to give further thought to the situation. 

**  
Monday - 4.00pm**

House sat at his desk and bounced his ball against the wall. It bounced straight back to him, and he threw it again. Music was playing through his headphones, and for once the conference room was empty. He didn't have a patient, and he'd sent his team out to search the wards for something interesting. In the meantime, though, he wanted to think.

He'd been unable to come up with any solution to the problem of Wilson and his suddenly accident-prone behavior, but somehow he couldn't quite shake off the idea that he was missing something. He was planning to question Wilson further about it once he'd taken him back to the apartment that evening, but in the meantime his mind refused to let go.

Completely stymied, he turned to his computer and typed Wilson's name into Google. _Hmmm_, he thought. _James Wilson - Signer of the Declaration of Independence_. House's mouth twitched as he thought back to the events of recent months, and the way that Tritter's actions had almost forced he and Wilson apart. There was an irony in there somewhere, but House put it aside for further consideration later. _Radio Presenter James Wilson's Personal Website_. House attempted to picture Wilson equipped with a large set of headphones, interviewing guests for late night broadcasts, but he failed in the attempt. _James Wilson - Falconer_; _James Wilson - Lecturer _(House paused there for a moment, and decided he could picture Wilson in that role); _James Wilson - Research Student_. House was in the act of scrolling further down the page when he noticed the light on his telephone flashing. He pulled off his headphones and reached across the desk.

"What?" he barked into the receiver, the main part of his mind still occupied with the apparently endless list of Wilsons thrown up by his browser. There was no response, though, and a moment later he turned away from the computer towards the phone, and spoke again. "This is Greg House speaking. Who's that?" Again there was no reply, but then he heard what sounded like rustling from the other end of the line. He was about to hang up when suddenly he heard what sounded like an object dropping to the floor, and after that the phone was silent.

House sat for a moment, and then he looked at his watch. It took less than a second for the neurons in his brain to make a million connections, and less than 20 seconds more for him to throw himself out of his chair, straddle the balcony wall and reach the door to Wilson's office. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that as he grabbed the handle and pushed he hardly heard the door opening, but as he took in the sight of Wilson's hand just visible on the floor behind his desk, and hurled himself towards it across the room, he could clearly hear his brain screaming, _"No! Jimmy! No!"_

"Jesus! Wilson!" were the sounds he actually made, though. House dropped to his knees beside Wilson and reached for his neck to check his pulse. It took only seconds to assess the external signs of Wilson's condition. He was sprawled on his right side pressed up against his desk, and with his head pointing towards the door. There was a large and expanding patch of blood on the side of his shirt, and it was running down his back and forming a small pool on the floor behind him. His pulse was fast and thready, and what House could see of his face looked pale. His eyes were closed, and there was a thin film of sweat across his forehead and face. His chest was moving rapidly, and House could hear him panting into the carpet.

Quicker than he'd previously have imagined possible, House dragged himself back to his feet and grabbed Wilson's desk phone. He dialed the emergency number and ordered a gurney. Then he pulled Wilson's lab coat off the stand, and rolled it into a ball as he dropped to his knees behind Wilson's back.

There was a tear in Wilson's shirt, and when House ripped it open he found a small, neat wound in his side, just below his chest. It looked like a knife wound, and it was steadily oozing blood. House's stomach contracted, and he looked down at Wilson's carpet and made a quick assessment. It looked as though Wilson had lost about a liter, and House reached back for the lab coat and pressed it hard against Wilson's side. He leaned forwards, then, and pressed his mouth to Wilson's ear. "It's okay, Wilson. You're going to be okay." His voice felt unsteady in his throat and he could hear himself panting, and even in the midst of his panic he noticed a familiar ring to the words.

House sat back then and ran his hands rapidly over the rest of Wilson's body, searching frantically for any signs of further injury. He found nothing, though, and he leaned forwards to press his weight against Wilson's side. Then he moved two fingers to Wilson's neck again, and placed his other hand on Wilson's chest. Wilson's pulse was racing, and his breathing was fast and shallow. House removed his hand from Wilson's chest and reached down to take his hand instead. Wilson's skin was clammy, and House squeezed the hand hard, and shouted. "Wilson! Can you hear me? Come on, Jimmy! Open your eyes." Wilson's eyes were closed, but at the sound of House's voice his lashes flickered. House squeezed Wilson's hand and shouted again, but Wilson's eyes remained closed and he didn't squeeze back.

It began to seem to House that the emergency team would never arrive. Quite suddenly Wilson's door burst open, though, and House moved quickly aside to let the team take over. He gave them a rapid assessment of Wilson's condition, and then watched with a growing sense of helplessness as they established an IV and placed an oxygen mask over Wilson's face. Wilson was completely unresponsive, and it was difficult for the team to lift him out from behind his desk. Eventually they strapped him onto the gurney, though, and less than 60 seconds later the elevator doors closed behind them as they began the descent to the ER.

Cuddy had been alerted, and she was waiting at the elevator as the doors opened. She took House by the arm and pulled him to one side as the ER staff descended on Wilson. Within minutes Wilson had been prepped for an emergency laparotomy, and House watched in silence as Wilson was wheeled away to surgery. 

**Thursday - 9pm**

3 days had passed since Wilson had been attacked in his office, and as House approached the Diagnostics Department the corridor was almost in darkness. It was the first time he'd been back since Monday, and as he entered his room the circumstances in which he'd left it flooded back to him with disturbing clarity.

He took a seat at his desk, and leafed quickly through the mail that Cameron had sorted for him. None of it looked interesting, and he bundled it together and dropped it into the trash. Then he leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet onto the desk, and allowed his mind to drift.

Wilson's laparotomy had gone well, and he'd been released from the ICU to a general ward earlier that afternoon. The knife had penetrated his spleen, and the surgeons had discovered a partial bisection of his splenic artery, but Williamson and his team had repaired the damage and there had been no other significant injury. The nursing staff had been unusually attentive, and Wilson was making a strong recovery. When House had left him 10 minutes earlier, Wilson had been propped up in bed eating jello. House's eyes closed, and he smiled briefly for a moment at the memory of it, but his smile quickly faded as he considered once again how very different the outcome might have been.

It had been Wednesday before Wilson had been able to tell them what had happened. He'd seen a series of patients, the last of whom had been one John Sutherland. Sutherland was in his mid 30s, and Wilson had treated him 3 years earlier for malignant melanoma. 8 weeks ago, Sutherland had returned with symptoms that had been diagnosed as multiple brain metastases. He'd responded badly to whole brain radiation, and the purpose of Monday's visit had been to discuss further treatment options. Sutherland had reacted furiously to Wilson's careful explanations, and Wilson had been unable to talk him down. He'd risen from his seat to summon assistance from a member of his staff, but Sutherland had rushed towards him. With his desk in the way, there had been nowhere for Wilson to go. He hadn't seen the knife, but the pain of the blow had forced him to his knees. He'd fallen to the floor and been unable to get up, and he wasn't sure how much time had elapsed before he'd been able to focus sufficiently to remember the cell phone in his pocket.

Judging from the rate of blood loss, and the onset of hypovolemic shock, it seemed likely to House that it had been five minutes or more. He'd asked Wilson why he hadn't called the emergency number, but Wilson had been unable to answer. House had decided not to press the point. Not at that stage, anyway: but it was something he was intending to discuss with Wilson when he got him home.

House's expression darkened as his mind returned to the furious argument he'd had with Cuddy as they'd waited in her room for Wilson to return from surgery. The hospital's insurers had ordered an immediate review, and in the meantime Cuddy had taken steps to have panic buttons installed in all staff offices, as well as the treatment rooms. Sutherland had been arrested by the security staff on his way out of the hospital, but it was clear that he was seriously ill. He'd returned to the hospital under police escort the following morning, and he was now confined to a secure ward in the psychiatric wing.

Cuddy had been anxious to do as much as possible for Wilson. The incident had attracted press coverage at a national level, coming as soon as it had after House's shooting less than a year earlier, and Cuddy had spent most of the previous two days closeted in close discussion with the hospital's lawyers and insurers. She'd agreed without argument to House's demand for time off to care for Wilson at home, and House was waiting for the right moment to break the news that he intended to take Wilson back to his apartment no later than Monday, as long as he maintained his current rate of improvement.

Glancing at his watch, House saw that it was after half past nine. He swung his legs off the desk and turned to the computer to switch it off. As he did so, his hand brushed against the mouse, and the screen flickered back into life. House noticed that it was still set to the search page he'd been examining when he'd received Wilson's phone call three evenings ago, and he allowed his hand to drop to the mouse and began to scroll further down the screen.

The list of James Wilsons continued almost into infinity, but House was suddenly struck with the idea of typing 'House Wilson' into the box instead. The screen flickered for a moment, and when the list of results appeared one of the entries immediately caught House's eye.

_**Grabbing his Cane: The House Wilson LJ Community**_

Frowning, House reached forwards and clicked on the link. His frown was replaced by a look of blank amazement when the display changed, and he saw pictures of himself standing with Wilson at the top of the page. _WTF???_ He could hardly take in what he was seeing, and for a moment it occurred to him that this must be some sort of hoax. He was about to go and check the computer in the conference room when a particular entry on the page caught his eye._  
_

_**New Community! Sick!Wilson Anonymous**_

He read further.

_**Teyla**__** wrote:**_

_Hello everybody,_

_Acting on an idea __**geekygecko**__ had, I created a new community__**SickWilson**__. It's a community for everybody who likes to see Wilson suffer - and House give some comfort ;)_

_**Here's**__ a link to the info page. Come on over and check it out, and, if you like, join in on the torture:)_

House felt his head begin to reel from the shock, and as if in a daze he moved his hand forwards again and clicked on the new link. There he saw a cartoon picture that presumably represented some sort of… _sick Wilson_, and underneath that he read the following words.

_Welcome to Sick!Wilson Anonymous!_

_A community for everybody who likes to see Wilson suffer. ;)_

_Welcome are: prompts, challenges, fic, art, discussions, icons, ficrec, artrec... anything you can think of as long as it involves sick!Wilson, hurt!Wilson, abused!Wilson, emotionally!hurt!Wilson etcetera etcetera ;)_

Shocked to the very core of his being, House slumped back in his seat and surveyed the screen from a distance. _sick!Wilson? hurt!Wilson?_ Even _abused!Wilson?_ _What the hell could this possibly be about?_ House was familiar with outlandish ideas and bizarre connections--they were the daily currency of his job in the Diagnostics Department--but a community of strangers on the internet writing about him and Wilson? He simply couldn't take the idea on board.

As House lay staring at the screen wheels continued to turn in his mind, and quite suddenly an even more shocking idea occurred to him. He sat up in his seat and reached again for the mouse. He moved to the main community page, and then he scrolled down to see when the postings had begun. There seemed to be a disturbingly long list of stories written very recently, in which Wilson appeared to have suffered a variety of grievous injuries and illnesses, and the first of them had been posted on… House became aware that he was holding his breath as he scrolled to the bottom of the first page. There he found his answer. _Saturday 28th April._ The day before Wilson's series of 'accidents' had begun...

House fell back in his chair again. For the second time it crossed his mind that surely this must be some sort of elaborate joke--probably perpetrated by Wilson--but even as his mind toyed with the notion he knew that it couldn't be true. Not that twisted humor of that sort was beyond Wilson but, for a man who worked daily with a range of sophisticated medical technology, Wilson was surprisingly reticent when it came to using a computer. Thinking further about it, House couldn't remember ever seeing Wilson using the internet.

House stared at the screen, and his mind began to work. It seemed impossible that strangers writing on the internet had been able to influence the course of Wilson's actions, but--and it was at that stage that the germ of an idea took root in House's mind, and began to grow--if it could be done then presumably there was no logical reason why House shouldn't be able to do the same thing.

House pushed himself up and out of his chair, and walked through to the conference room. He reached for the coffee maker and switched it on. This was going to take him some time, and he wanted to make sure he got it right… 

**Thursday - 11pm**

It was two hours later by the time House finished typing. He reached for his coffee, and sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork. The whole LJ thing had turned out to be more straightforward than he'd imagined, and even creating a new community hadn't been difficult. His was to be a community of only 1--House had made sure to set membership to 'closed' as soon as he'd created it.

Uploading icons had been simple too. House had simply navigated to a secret folder of photographs that Emma Notleibowitz had sent him after her recent stay, and from there he'd uploaded something appropriate for himself, and his favorite picture of Wilson in scrubs.

The theme of his new community had been obvious to House as soon as he'd come up with the idea, but the title had taken a little longer. It was while he'd been selecting a photograph that the idea had fallen into place. House regarded it now with considerable satisfaction, and no small degree of anticipation: **suck!wilson.**

Nor had it taken House long to make a start on his first story, and he experienced a small thrill of satisfaction as he saw his words before him on the screen. He hadn't finished it yet, but he'd posted the first part already. If there was any possibility that his postings to **suck!wilson** might influence the course of future events, then House was anxious to waste no time in uploading them.

He'd given careful thought to plot development. He wasn't sure that either he or Wilson could cope with any sudden and dramatic change. Still--and he smiled to himself again, as he read over what he'd written--in something like this it was better to lay down the outline in broad strokes. He looked forwards to working out the details in due course.

House put his coffee back down on the desk, and made a couple of minor amendments to the text. He intended to continue the story from the privacy of his apartment later that night, but now it was time to check that the night nursing staff weren't hitting on Wilson again. He took a last look at his chapter, and reached over to turn the computer off.

_**HOUSE'S STORY – CHAPTER 1**_

_**Title: **__How Jimmy Wilson realised he was in love with House (and they both lived happily ever after)__**  
Author: **__tehawts4jw__**  
Warnings: **__NC-17 (eventually)__**  
Disclaimer: **__Good Lord...  
__**Summary: **__Wilson finally gets his head out of his ass. House takes its place. (Translation for morons: House and Wilson make out.)_

_**Mood**__: Hopeful_

_**Chapter 1/?**___

It was Friday evening at 9pm, and House had been expecting Wilson an hour earlier. Three months had passed since Wilson had been attacked in his office, but in the intervening period he'd made almost a complete recovery.

Wilson had been staying at House's apartment since his release from the hospital. Three weeks after he'd moved in, he and House had spent a Saturday afternoon moving his belongings out of the hotel. A week later Wilson had returned to work, and two weeks after that he'd finally moved out of House's living room and into his bed.

It sometimes seemed to House that it was taking him longer to come to terms with Wilson's experience than it had taken Wilson himself. Occasions like now, for instance. House glanced again at his watch, and was unable entirely to quell a low thrum of anxiety. He pushed himself out of his seat and made his way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge he reached in and extracted a beer, and then he made his way back to the couch.

_The L Word__ was playing in the background, but House wasn't really watching. He looked across at his cell phone on the coffee table, and he'd almost decided to call Wilson when he heard the sound of a key in the front door. A moment later the door opened and Wilson walked in._

"Sorry I'm late," said Wilson, apologetically. He was dressed in his dark suit with a blue shirt, and wearing one of the less revolting of his current selection of ties. He slipped his jacket off, and as he walked across to the closet to hang it up he reached down and gently brushed his hand across House's shoulder.

House arranged his features into a scowl. "I'm sure there must be a good reason why you didn't call me. Lemme see, now. Maybe a hurricane swept through the Oncology Department and blew all the telephones away? Or maybe Cuddy took her top off in the clinic, and you were pinned to the floor in the stampede for the exit?"

Wilson smiled, and dropped into his seat on the couch beside House. He reached across and took a swig of House's beer. "I really am sorry, House. I just needed to finish up some paperwork, and Brown wanted to go over some files. You have to stop worrying about me when I'm at the hospital. And anyway,"--Wilson grinned, and his soft brown eyes twinkled over at House--"I'm going to have a whole week to make it up to you when we get to the Galapagos on Sunday."

It wasn't easy in the face of Wilson's smiles, but House managed to glare back. He opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort, but before he could speak Wilson placed the bottle on the table and slid right up next to him. He put his arms round House's back and slipped his hands up under his t-shirt. Then he leaned towards House and kissed him, slow and deep. House abandoned his glare, and kissed Wilson back.

A minute or so later Wilson pulled away gently, and grinned. "You know, I'm really tired. It's been a long week. How about we skip dinner and just go straight to bed? We can continue this there."

House grinned back at Wilson, and reached for his cane. "Whatever you say, Jimmy. I seem to have lost my appetite." Then he grinned again. "And anyway, Cuddy would never forgive me if I let you get over-tired."

_(To be continued...)_

__

**Epilogue**

House didn't manage to take Wilson home on Monday after all. Wilson had unexpectedly developed a rare and virulent infection, and House had spent most of the following 36 hours at his bedside in the ICU as he and his team had struggled to bring it under control. House had finally managed to come up with the solution after he'd hacked into the **sickwilson** archive, and deleted a few recent postings at source.

By Wednesday, though, Wilson had been well on the mend, and on Friday evening at 6 o'clock House finally settled Wilson into his bed at the apartment. House had taken up temporary residence on the couch, but he had plans to introduce the possibility of shared bed-space to Wilson over the course of the next week or so.

House smiled to himself in the kitchen as he poured soup into a cup and sorted Wilson's evening dose of medications onto a plate beside a sandwich. He couldn't be absolutely sure, but he was almost certain he'd detected a change in Wilson's attitude already. He wasn't going to push things, though. _Softly softly catchee Wilsie, _he thought to himself, as he carried Wilson's things back to the bedroom.

Wilson was dozing, but he opened his eyes and looked over at House as he entered the room. "Hey," he said. "Cuddy must really have done a number on you. You'll be warming my slippers and offering me back rubs next."

House smiled as he set the plates down on the bedside table next to Wilson. "Shut up and take your meds," he said. "I preferred you when you were unconscious." He hesitated for just a moment, and then he walked round to the other side of the bed and swung his legs up. He shuffled a little closer to Wilson, and then he leaned back against the headboard and poked Wilson in the shoulder. "No point in me sitting alone out there when all the fun peeps are hanging out in here. Eat you sandwich, and if you're a good boy later I might just tell you a story." 

**The End**


End file.
